From the perspective of Zhuge Su Yeon
The murmur of the stands still echoed in waves, but to me it was nothing more than distant noise. My eyes were fixed on the center of the arena.
The Realm of Spiritual Refinement.
How many there believed it to be nothing more than the second step on the long staircase to immortality? Just a stage after Body Refinement.
A mistake repeated generation after generation, like a tradition of ignorance.
In practice, it was different. Absolutely different.
A cultivator in Body Refinement could, indeed, display an awakened Martial Soul.
Others, with luck or family, wielded spiritual weapons — swords, spears, blades containing more essence than any common steel.
And of course, there were martial techniques: movements of Spiritual or even Earthly rank, much like many of the Zhuges had learned.
All of this was accessible in Body Refinement.
But all of this, in the end, were shadows. Incomplete reflections.
A Martial Soul still young was no more than a flickering will-o'-the-wisp.
A spiritual weapon in the hands of a limited body was like a harp handed to the deaf.
And techniques… ah, the techniques… one could even say they were nothing more than rehearsed stances, memorized steps without ever playing the music.
The reason was simple, and at the same time, unfathomable to most.
When one left Body Refinement and entered Spiritual Refinement, Qi ceased to be just Qi.
In that instant, for the first time, something else appeared — a new energy, subtle yet absolute.
They called it spiritual energy.
It was this that truly changed the rules of the game.
Under its influence, Martial Souls revealed their true brilliance, unveiling functions that once slept.
Spiritual weapons ceased to be mere expensive ornaments — they became living extensions, capable of conversing with the cultivator's flow.
And martial techniques, once nothing more than choreographed exercises, blossomed in their full complexity, manifesting the weight of laws and the depth of Dao inscribed in each strike.
The abyss between a body in Body Refinement and a being in Spiritual Refinement was not merely one of power.
It was one of existence.
That is why many sages said — and rightly so — that only there did the true path of cultivation begin.
Before that, we were nothing more than children sharpening sticks, playing at duels under the indulgent gaze of Heaven.
Faced with that reality, I already knew the outcome.
Ren… he was firm as a wall, his body tempered in discipline and silence.
But against a cultivator in Spiritual Refinement?
No wall could withstand.
It was cruel, but inevitable.
The arena was silent, as if even the wind waited. Han Qian walked forward with the calm of one who already knew the result. Each of his steps made the ground vibrate faintly — not from physical strength, but from the discreet pressure of his spiritual energy.
Ren, in contrast, remained immovable, hands clenched like stone, eyes fixed on his enemy. There was no fear in his face. Only that stupid and honorable obstinacy I already expected from him.
Han Qian stopped a few steps away. His gaze fell on Ren like a blade already unsheathed.
— "Surrender would be the wisest choice," he said in a cold tone, as if pronouncing an inevitable sentence. "Spiritual Refinement is not a step one can leap over with courage."
Ren laughed. A dry, heavy sound that echoed through the stands like a muffled thunder.
— "Wise? Perhaps." His voice rang firm, carrying a flame no cultivated technique could forge. "I need to see with my own eyes if the power of this so-called 'spiritual refinement' is truly as absurd as they say."
For a moment, Han Qian arched an eyebrow, surprised by the audacity. Then, a thin smile curved his lips.
— "Then prove it." He raised his sword in a short salute. "I shall grant you this opportunity."
The referee lifted his hand and, with a wave, signaled the start of the duel.
Ren did not wait.
Unlike his previous battles, where he stood like an immovable stone, now he launched himself forward, the ground of the arena cracking under his weight.
A golden glow covered his skin, every muscle and tendon vibrating like iron hammered in a sacred forge. It was the Tempered Golden Body Technique — his legendary defense.
And in his fists, purplish sparks crackled, the air sizzling under the pressure of accumulated energy. The roar of thunder echoed, resonating in the hearts of the spectators. It was the Thunder Impact Fist.
Han Qian received the advance without fear. His spiritual sword cut the air in an elegant arc. The first clash resounded like thunder split in two: golden, thundering fists against spiritual blade.
A flash blinded the audience momentarily.
But when the dust settled, both still stood, unscathed.
Ren smiled, panting but steady.
Han Qian merely adjusted his stance, impassive.
They advanced again.
Fists against blade, thunder against fire.
Each clash made the air tremble, echoes reverberating through the stands.
Neither yielded. Neither bled.
And then, after another impact that spread cracks across the arena floor, Ren straightened and spat words that cut the silence:
— "If this is all… then Spiritual Refinement is nothing more than a pretty name."
The stands erupted in murmurs. The provocation was clear, and Han Qian could not ignore it.
His eyes narrowed, and for the first time his aura surged with intensity.
Behind him, a spectral sword appeared in silence — his Spiritual Soul. It hovered at his back, translucent as jade, yet exuding a pressure that weighed upon the entire arena.
With each beat of its invisible wings, the real sword in his hand seemed sharper, faster, more inevitable.
And then came the surprise: Han Qian lifted his left hand and, with a precise gesture, revealed his true spiritual weapon.
Not a common blade, but a sword whose body seemed fused with golden flames, engraved with ancient runes that glowed with each of his breaths.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, soon turning into cries of exaltation from the Han, who rose proudly as if it were their own victory.
— "The Crimson Sun-Blood Sword…!" someone exclaimed.
Even I, from my silent corner, observed more closely.
Not for the ostentation itself, but for the fact that a clan like the Han revealing such a weapon in a youth tournament was a clear sign of arrogance and confidence.
Han Qian swung the blade in a slow arc, and the spiritual pressure palpably increased. The golden glow covering Ren began to split, little by little. Each strike that had once been balanced now pushed him back a step.
Ren resisted.
His fists still thundered, still met the blade with booms that shook the air.
But shallow cuts began appearing on his golden skin, thin lines of blood marking each impact.
He did not retreat.
Even suppressed, even wounded, his eyes burned with the same stubbornness as always.
And then Han Qian decided to end it.
His spiritual energy erupted in flaming waves, the Spiritual Soul behind him roaring in unison with the sword in his hands.
He raised the blade, which shone like a sun in eruption, and unleashed a downward slash that tore the air as if splitting space itself.
Ren raised his golden fists in defense, but the impact was overwhelming.
A boom echoed, dust and sparks filled the arena, and Ren's body was hurled back, colliding with the edge and being flung outside the arena in a spray of blood.
The crowd exploded in shouts.
Ren lay fallen, his chest marked by a great transversal cut that still gleamed with spiritual energy, his golden skin cracked like metal about to break.
Yet, even injured, he pushed himself onto one knee, supporting his fist on the ground, and stood again, lifting his face.
His eyes met Han Qian's.
There was no humiliation there.
No surrender.
Only pride.
He had not defeated him, but he had done something even more insolent:
He had proven that, even before the superiority of Spiritual Refinement, he could still stand. He could still mark his enemy with his blood and with his endurance.
It was a silent challenge, an unspoken warning:
"You may have won… but you never made me kneel."
And in that instant, the silence that fell over the arena was worth more than a thousand cries of victory.
I was forced to admit as I watched that scene: when pride clashes with pride, the result is capable of forging legends.
Ren might stand among the defeated, might carry across his chest the mark of Han Qian's spiritual blade, but… he did not waver.
Even bleeding, his gaze remained upright, as if he still stood on the arena floor.
And this, more than any technique or weapon, was what made him truly fearsome.
Han Qian's victory was clear.
But before everyone, what echoed was not only his strength — it was the golden stubbornness of Ren, who refused to yield even after being hurled from the arena.
An uncomfortable thought pierced me like an invisible needle.
If Ren had only a few more days… just enough to break through the already fragile barrier of Body Refinement and step into the Spiritual Realm…
The narrative would have been distorted.
The brilliance gathered around Han Qian would have been overshadowed.
Fate, so zealous in protecting its protagonist, would lose control of its own story.
For if Ren were in Spiritual Refinement, I doubt he would have lost this fight.
And the silence that lingered over the arena seemed to confirm my thoughts, as if even Heaven acknowledged the irony of its own plot.